


Dry Clean Only

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 04, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel have sex with suits on (sorta). There you go, that pretty much sums it up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Clean Only

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Spoilers up to and including 4.20, and this surmises that Dean and Castiel have had a few, uh, friendly moments together since then. I actually wrote this because I wanted to see them having sex with suits on, although it didn’t quite work out that way. However, this might still interest any readers with a tie!kink...
> 
>  **Note 2:** This was written back in season four; I'm posting it here now. Also, I'm laughing my arse off that AO3 has a tag for "Suit Porn"!

 

~ ~ ~

The angel is waiting for him when he gets back from the school. He walks through the door with his thoughts far away – spirits, dead janitor, kids – and he’s fingering the fake FBI badge in his pocket and wondering how those guys could ever wear a suit every day without wanting to tear it off and scream for freedom. He looks up and Castiel is simply standing there in the middle of the room, hands in coat pockets, looking for all the world as though he’d been practicing that look of yearning on his face in a mirror to get it right.

Dean closes the door behind him and stands there, awkward. They’re still new at this. But even as the unfamiliarity washes over him, it brings a thrill, accompanied by the knowledge that Sam is at the hospital talking to the parents of the little boy they saved that morning. He and Castiel are alone, and whenever they’re alone these days, Dean’s life goes in some pretty freaky directions.

“You here for work or play?” he asks, and is pleased to hear how cocky his voice sounds in his ears.

Castiel doesn’t answer, just looks him up and down, and Dean remembers he’s wearing the suit. For once they both look as ordinary as each other.

“Don’t get used to it,” he comments, yanking on his tie. “I only wear this thing at times of great national crisis. Or when your boss decides to whammy me into an alternate universe in which I’m a prick.”

“It makes you look older,” Castiel replies.

Dean can’t decide if it’s a compliment or not, so he shrugs. “Yeah, well. So, what’s the deal? Another round of orders, or are you here for a tonsil hockey rematch? Neither of us seems to have caught any flak yet from the guy upstairs, so I suppose our latest hobby isn’t ringing any alarm bells to speak of.”

Castiel almost smiles. “There are no bells,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t be afraid of the consequences, Dean.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I’ve lived my life dealing with consequences.” Dean places the empty briefcase in his hand down on the table. A prop. A thing to help him look efficient, like a professional. He’s a liar, and people believe him, but he’s not going to lie to Castiel. This _scares_ him, as it should. Humans aren’t supposed to find themselves lip-locking with celestial beings. An angel shouldn’t be sexy. They should be androgynous and terrifying, not something you want to lick, like an ice cream, or get drunk on, like beer. So far he’s kissed Castiel twice and after each time he went to bed that night convinced he would wake up back on the rack the next morning. Instead all he got was Sam complaining about him getting more of his toothpaste in the basin than on his toothbrush.

He’s still looking at the briefcase as Castiel walks over to him. _My ring,_ he’s thinking. _Should’ve taken off my ring. A real FBI agent wouldn’t wear a ring like that, surely?_ Then there’s a hand curled around the back of his neck, holding him still, and another moves under his jaw and lifts his head until he has no choice but to look the angel in the eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, Dean.”

And Dean is lost. He’s not strong enough to fight this. It’s not just lust or need or passion; he’s got some kind of connection with this creature in front of him, something he can’t control no matter how much logic tells him he should. He stares into Castiel’s eyes and tries, for the hundredth time, to imagine who he really is, what he really looks like, but all he can see is a body that belongs to someone else and an expression that seems perfectly, tragically human.

“It’s not right,” he says, and there’s weariness in his voice. “You’re an angel. This isn’t your real body – there’s a guy in there, and I met him. And you’re the wrong sex. You know that, right? Plus you’re supposed to be my boss and you’re supposed to be holy. I’m not holy, Cas. This has to stop.”

“He is unaware,” Castiel replies steadily, and Dean doesn’t have to ask who. “This is no longer his body, and he has accepted that. He is only attached by a thread now. It’s _me_ , Dean. Who I am. I’m more human with every passing day. I’m learning everything I need to know to do my job, and this is just a part of it.”

Dean snorts. “You tryin’ to tell me I’m educational? What is this, Sex Ed 101?”

“I’m trying to tell you that we can learn from each other,” Castiel says, stressing his words. “As much as you can give to me, I can give to you. You have a terrible weight on your shoulders, Dean. Let me help you think of something else for a while.”

“I don’t see how – ” But lips meet his and Dean ends up sighing into Castiel’s eager mouth, his argument swallowed, and he thinks about pushing him away but suddenly he’s too tired. He’s been trying to do the right thing here, he really has, but Castiel is determined, and Dean is starting to get obsessed with him despite his better judgment, and with so much already on his plate with Sam and Lilith and freakin’ Lucifer, it’s hard to summon the willpower to deny himself anything that feels good, even for a few minutes.

“You’re one determined son of a bitch, you know that?” he mutters when Castiel comes up for air, and then he kisses him himself and tries not to think about the look on Jimmy Novak’s face when he agreed to carry Castiel around inside him to save his daughter.

It should feel bad, all things considered. He should feel like he’s doing a terrible thing, like he’s corrupting and violating something innocent, but he knows this isn’t his fault. Castiel’s breath is warm and dry, coming in short bursts inside his mouth and against his lips, and the hands that slide down his back are gentle. Dean holds himself back, trying not to kiss him too hard like he did the other times because he wants Castiel to know he’s not totally on board with this. Kissing is one thing, but he senses more is going to happen now and it makes his stomach clench in fear. He needs more time, he really needs more time – there are moral issues, and religious issues, and even without all that there’s the fact that Dean’s never had sex with a man before and doesn’t even know that he _can_ – but Castiel is hungry and moves his head to nip at his neck and Dean catches his breath, wavering.

“He’s not here,” the angel says again, breathless. “It’s _me_.”

“If you say so,” Dean murmurs, closing his eyes.

“It’s me,” Castiel repeats, and a hand slips under the back of Dean’s sensible black jacket and clenches a handful of his shirt, pulling it free of his pants to expose the bare skin above his belt. “You are Dean Winchester, and I am Castiel. I want to fuck you, Dean, because you need it, and I need it too.”

Dean shudders, caught up in the sudden image in his head, and then he’s pushing Castiel’s coat off his shoulders before he even knows he’s doing it, leaning forward to kiss his jawline as his partner’s hand trails down the front of his pants. Castiel strokes the material a couple of times and then unzips him, easing warm fingers inside and gripping him through the cotton of his underwear. Dean gasps, already hardening, and finds he can’t concentrate on anything except the feel of a thumb running strong, dry circles around the head of his dick.

Castiel glances downward and then looks up again, a small smile dancing on his lips as he meets Dean’s startled eyes. Dean wonders if he’s ever laughed, then finds himself wondering if he’s ever come. _Sex Ed 101._ He leans in and bites the angel’s lower lip gently, sucking on it as the thumb teasing his penis disappears and is replaced by a firm hand on his length, pulling and rubbing in a confident rhythm. It’s so assured, so controlled, Dean knows then that Castiel has definitely done this before, if only on himself.

“That feels good,” he mutters, wanting to assure him he’s doing it right, and Castiel responds by slipping his hand even further inside his pants, moving Dean’s cock sideways as Dean unbuckles his belt. Once he’s pulled it off, however, the pants stay in place, resting _just so_ on his hips, and Dean gauges the pressure in his groin and the determination in his partner’s expression and realizes that Castiel’s not interested in him removing his clothes; he’s going to make him come in his pants. Which is a nuisance because this suit has to be dry cleaned, and he can’t really afford to get it dirty, and then he wonders what the hell his brain is worrying about and tells it to shut the fuck up.

Castiel works him until he starts to sweat, breathing hitching in his throat, and the cotton of his underwear warms up and starts to slide on his shaft from both sweat and his own pre-come. He can feel it soaking into his clothes and it feels wrong, dirty, particularly when he’s dressed as a fucking FBI agent, of all things, but he’s not doing anything to stop it. Castiel is kissing him, running his empty hand up and down his spine underneath his damp shirt, and Dean puts his hands on his ass and keeps them there, holding him tight against his body. Occasionally it occurs to him that _this is not a woman_ but he ignores the thought, not really caring because the hand that’s jerking him off feels good no matter who it belongs to, and he finds that the nearer he gets to his climax the less he thinks about God and angels and human hosts and anything except coming and coming and _coming._

When he gets there, he remembers just in time that he hates doing it standing up because it makes his knees go weak, and it embarrasses him that Castiel has to all but hold him upright as the feeling carries him away. But it’s so good he doesn’t really have time to dwell: he groans deeply in his throat, thrusting into the willing hand at his groin as though his life depends on it, and there’s a blossoming wetness down there that is hot and wrong and glorious. Castiel whispers in his ear just as it happens, one word – “Yes” – and then his heart’s beating too fast and he’s drenched in sweat and he wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a month.

Instead, Castiel steps away from him, leaving him wobbly and unkempt in the middle of the room. He drops a hand to his pants and pulls them back over his groin with a ludicrous self-consciousness and stares at him, breathing raggedly, trying to ascertain what happens now.

He notices Castiel idly rubbing a shining hand on his jacket and thinks _dry clean only_ before he raises his eyes to meet his gaze.

“Thanks,” he says, rather foolishly.

Castiel fixes him with one of his patented I’m-seeing-right-through-you stares and frowns. “Are you still concerned about consequences?” he asks.

Dean lets out a weak chuckle and shakes his head. “We’re still here, I guess.”

“Good.” Castiel removes his jacket, throwing it on a nearby chair, and stares at Dean intently as he slowly undoes his belt. For the life of him, Dean can’t figure out the look on his face – he seems expectant, and also a little sad, and nervous, too. Then, with a flash of insight, he realizes what Castiel is doing. He’s giving him time to say no. He’s undressing, but he’s aware that Dean might have issues with taking this any further. Dean lets out a faint breath of shock as he also realizes that Castiel made him climax first so that this, now, would be own decision. If he stays it will be because he wants to, and not just because he’s desperate for an orgasm. He wants him to react with his head, not his dick.

 _Sneaky motherfucker,_ he thinks, and freezes, because he honestly doesn’t know what to do.

Castiel freezes too, sensing his doubt.

Dean hasn’t had sex in months. The last woman he’d slept with had blue eyes and dark hair and giggled far too much but he didn’t care because when she looked at him it was almost... well, almost. Since then he’d been too busy to think about picking up women; too worried about his brother to find any pleasure at his own hands, and it wasn’t until he kissed Castiel four days ago that he’d even realized his mind was subconsciously setting him up with the guy who saved him from Hell. That Castiel had been one of the most important things in his life since September, or that their uneasy friendship – if you could even call it that – had been tested time and again, not the least when the angel had his ass kicked by his own kind for trying to help him. And now this: Castiel is standing there, willing and ready, but also prepared to leave if Dean isn’t capable of returning the sentiment, and he’d told him over and over that this was no-strings-attached sex with nothing that could possibly trouble Heaven in any way.

 _That body is Castiel’s,_ Dean thinks. _It’s not Jimmy’s; it’s not even human, for fuck’s sake. And yet I want it. I don’t even care that it’s male._

The revelation is so swift, so profound, that he has to close his eyes for a moment while he processes it. It’s almost funny: Dean Winchester never does anything by halves, does he? Not only does he decide to have sex with a guy after three decades on this planet spent doing anything but, he also chooses an _angel_ to pop his gay cherry for him. How can anybody’s life be so bizarre?

He opens his eyes again and is greeted with the sight of Castiel a few feet away, hands by his sides, regarding him seriously with a small frown on his forehead. He doesn’t look hopeful, he doesn’t look horny, he doesn’t look anything except his usual self. When Dean takes a step towards him, however, his eyes flash with relief and he takes a deep breath. He lifts a hand to unbutton his shirt and Dean catches it in mid-air.

“Don’t,” he says. “I don’t want to see you naked.”

Castiel frowns again. “I thought...”

“It’s cool, don’t worry. I just want you to stay like that.”

The angel narrows his eyes, studying his expression, then nods. “As you wish.”

Dean breathes in, filling his lungs, trying to steady himself. He’s still a bit shaky from his orgasm, and he’s still hot, but he’s managing. “What do you want me to do?” he asks in what he hopes is his most reasonable voice. “I’m not exactly an expert at this. I mean, I am usually, but you’re pretty much Diet Coke compared to Classic Coke – the end result’s the same but you won’t taste quite right, and packaging’s different...” He realizes how lame he’s being just as Castiel raises a hand and places a finger on his lips.

“It’s alright,” says the angel. “There’s nothing to fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” Dean protests around the finger. “Freaked, maybe, and a little concerned, but not afraid. It takes more than a new sexual position to scare me. Hell, I’ve tried enough of ’em over the years, even if I haven’t quite managed this one.”

“I’ll try my utmost not to break you,” Castiel promises in a tone that completely baffles Dean. It could be a joke, or it could be a genuine promise; he has no idea. Castiel can deadpan so well it’s hard to tell when he’s being serious.

“Uh, good,” he says uncertainly.

Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. “Get on the bed, Dean.”

He pauses, then toes off his shoes, pulls off his pants and, after steeling himself for a moment, his underwear. He sits on the mattress and removes his jacket, but as he goes to undo his tie Castiel stops him with a hand on his wrist. “No,” he orders. “Leave it. And your shirt.”

Dean grins, suddenly amused by the tit-for-tat nature of their lack of clothing removal, but anything he’s about to say is stolen from him as Castiel wraps the tie around his hand and pulls him forward roughly, bringing him to his lips with a startled cry. There’s a pressure at his throat and Dean shivers, recalling a hundred attacks, a hundred monsters and spirits and demons who tried to strangle him, but none of them ever kissed him at the same time so it’s not quite the same feeling. Castiel’s tongue is fierce and hot in his mouth. It probes every inch of his own tongue, exploring and marking its territory before Dean decides the power struggle is too one-sided and he grips Castiel’s tie in return, twisting it around his palm until he feels it snap taut against his neck. Castiel doesn’t respond but Dean feels powerful all of a sudden, and the knowledge makes him fight back with his own tongue until it aches from sparring.

Then Castiel releases him, drops both hands to his waist and lifts him up as though he weighs _nothing_. Dean yelps as he’s deposited further up the bed, his head hitting the pillow as Castiel climbs up the mattress with him on all fours, and while he looks stunningly sexy prowling towards him like that, Dean can’t quite believe how strong he is. _Not human._ Perhaps when he said _I’ll try not to break you_ he hadn’t been joking after all.

“Why do I suddenly feel like the girl here?” he protests weakly, as Castiel pins his wrists on the sheets above his head and looms over him. His face is flushed and his eyes are dark. Dean’s impressed; it’s a good look.

“You’re not a girl,” Castiel declares in a low voice.

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“I’m stronger than you. You should accept it.”

Dean swallows. “You’ll forgive me if I spare a few moments to mourn my lost machismo.”

Castiel lowers his head to Dean’s neck and licks it. “I’d forgive you anything.”

“Oh God,” Dean gasps, and not simply because of the sensation of the tongue on his skin. “That’s so fucking _hot_ , Cas...”

Castiel doesn’t answer; just busies himself with licking every inch of Dean’s neck that he can reach under the collar, and once he’s done that he releases his wrists and runs both his hands through his hair as he kisses him. Only he doesn’t do it gently; he pulls and tugs, yanking Dean’s head back to expose his neck before releasing handfuls of hair, and while Dean’s still processing the feeling he slides on top of him, tangling their legs together until Dean can feel his hardness angling against his hip. He wriggles beneath it, trying to cause some friction, and is rewarded when Castiel clutches at his hair even more tightly and moans softly against his chin.

Dean has a moment of clarity; an epiphany, even. He just made an angel _moan_. He blinks up at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with the fact, and Castiel seems to sense that he’s losing him and lifts himself up so that he can meet his eyes. “What is it?” he asks, as Dean runs a hand down his chest. His shirt is warm and damp. Angels can sweat as well as make sex noises.

“Have you ever done this before?” Dean says, apropos of nothing. “Like, seriously – ever? In any form? With anyone else, I mean, not by yourself.”

Castiel releases a breath. “No,” he says flatly.

Dean frowns. “Then why now? Why me?”

“Because I like it when I have a partner who interrupts our lovemaking to ask stupid questions,” Castiel replies in a voice that drips with sarcasm, and it catches Dean so much by surprise that he doesn’t even laugh until Castiel is already sitting back and undoing his pants.

“You can crack jokes after all,” he smiles. “There’s hope for you yet.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Castiel responds, pulling off his trousers, and Dean watches in languid fascination as his boxer shorts slip down smooth thighs, revealing a semi-hard penis that he instantly compares to his own because he’s a guy and he thinks size is everything. He wins, too, and grins at the revelation, before noticing that Castiel is staring at him through narrowed eyes.

“What?”

Castiel sighs, but there’s something a little artificial about it, as though it’s partly faked. “You humans are too obsessed with physical features and your prowess during sex,” he says flatly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“To you, maybe. Some of us have reputations to live up to.”

The angel places a hand on Dean’s knee and squeezes it. “I’m not just a notch on your bedpost, Dean,” he says. “This is sex, but it’s also something more.”

Dean feels his stomach flip. “I know,” he says in a shaky voice, which surprises him. “I mean, sex is sex, and it’s all well and good – or very good, actually – but you and me kind of have something else goin’ on, don’t we? It’s been there right from the start.”

Castiel lowers his gaze to the sheets, suddenly seeming coy. “Yes,” he says.

Dean wants to speak, but can’t, because he has a horrible feeling whatever he says will embarrass the crap out of him. It’ll feature the l-word, or talk of feelings, or a conversation about bonds and handprints and missions from God. He doesn’t want any of that now because he’s half-naked in bed with an angel who is also half-naked and just so happens to be hard, while Dean’s fairly certain he’s starting to get ready for action again himself. He wants this to be sex, sex and more sex, feelings be damned for now, and so he reaches out and grabs Castiel’s creased tie and pulls him on top of him. He kisses him until he feels stubble burning on his chin, and then he kisses him some more because it doesn’t hurt enough.

Castiel slips a hand underneath Dean’s shirt, running a palm across his chest and sliding on sweat. He rolls on top of him again, bare legs brushing bare legs this time, and Dean feels the warm hardness of another man’s length brush against his own and gasps in shock. He drops the tie in his hand and breaks off the kiss, looking down just in time to see Castiel take both their penises in his hand and rub them together. Dean’s still soft but he’s recovering quickly and it feels amazing, like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he decides then and there that the feel of someone’s dick against his beats everything else, even breasts. Quite how Castiel can fit them both in one hand is a mystery to him but he’s not complaining; instead he lifts his hips upwards, futilely trying to fuck his palm, and Castiel raises his head and smiles at him with astonishing warmth.

That, more than anything, makes Dean hard again.

A minute or so passes as Castiel strokes them both and then the angel’s head drops downwards and a tongue flicks against the tip of Dean’s cock, teasing, testing, probably tasting still-wet semen. Dean hisses and tries to sit upright so he can watch but a hand flattens over his heart and holds him down – Castiel is strong. He’d forgotten. He can’t move so he has to lie there and take it, feeling helpless as Castiel licks him too gently, too precisely, too slowly, driving him crazy because it’s all on the outside and Dean wants _in_.

“Come on, Cas,” he begs, annoyed, after what he deems a significant amount of time. “Just suck it, please.”

“No,” Castiel says in one of his best deep voices, and Dean shivers.

“Do you want me to do you?” he asks, suddenly clicking that this kind of thing goes both ways. He’s never given anyone a blow job before, but the thought of Castiel moaning as he sucks him off makes his skin tingle.

Castiel sits upright and glares at him. “Turn over,” he orders, and it’s just that – an order, not a request, and Dean feels a thrill run from the tips of his toes to his head as he realizes he can’t help but obey, and he _wants_ to obey, and for the first time in his life he’s going to have a man fuck him and it’s going to be _Castiel._

Without saying a word he rolls over, resting on his elbows. Within seconds hands pull him onto his hands and knees and push his shirt high up his back where it sits in a damp, creased mess. He toys with the idea of removing his tie, which is dangling down onto the pillow below him, but he likes how both he and Castiel are wearing the same things and it amuses him to keep it on. Then he forgets everything because there are palms on his buttocks, fingers squeezing and kneading at them, and he stifles a groan at the thought of what’s going to happen next. He’s had anal sex with girls before, of course, because these days it’s all the rage and some of the women he’s met on his travels have been wild enough to let him try anything. He knows the basics, for them anyway, but he’s never been on the receiving end and has no idea what it’ll be like. He realizes that he’s scared. He’s also excited, though, and he trusts Castiel not to hurt him despite the fact he’s never done this before either.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs in his ear; he can feel him leaning over his back, and a tie traces a line up his spine. “You will be fine.”

“I know,” he replies, annoyed with himself. “Just do it, Cas. Don’t worry about me.”

Lips fall on his shoulder, kissing him through his shirt, and then Castiel is kneeling behind him and those same lips are kissing his buttocks, planting caresses up and down them with what Dean thinks is rather sweet abandon. After that, however, it’s down to business as a tongue suddenly licks at his cleft, and he tenses as it goes lower and lower, tickling as it traces the underside of his testicles. He jolts in surprise as it stops to lick him somewhere he’s never, ever been licked before, and if only he wasn’t been so nervous he would probably laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. The first time anybody has ever touched him there and it’s an _angel_? The universe is freakin’ hilarious.

It feels good, though. Dean relaxes a little as Castiel laves him, pushing his tongue into the hole with a little more force every time, making him tremble and moan. There are nerve endings there he never knew he had and they come alive, making his cock twitch, and the more Castiel licks at him the more Dean wonders what his dick is going to feel like. After a while he feels a finger investigate the entrance and he huffs out a laugh because the sensation is so strange, but it doesn’t hurt and he’s hopeful. Two fingers are a little more peculiar and he tenses without thinking, but a hand strokes his back and kisses fall down his spine as he gets used to it, and now he’s sure he can handle this.

“Come on,” he urges, after so long he’s starting to wonder how the hell Castiel can still be hard. “Just get on in there and fuck me, Cas.”

There’s no delay: for once, Dean gives an order and Castiel is the one who follows it. The fingers are removed and then there’s a strong, heavy force pushing into him and he moans, knuckles whitening on the sheets as he tries to keep his balance, and he realizes that actually tongues and fingers are no substitute for the real thing. He wonders what kind of lubrication Castiel used because he can feel how slick his cock is inside him, and then Dean doesn’t wonder anything else because Castiel starts to move in and out, occasionally leaving his body entirely and entering it again, and each movement is an equal measure of _uncomfortable_ and _intimate_ and Dean can barely reconcile one with the other.

“Holy –” he gasps, unable even to finish the phrase, and he moans as Castiel’s hands slide under his belly and lift him firmly, holding him still and close, and suddenly this isn’t so unpleasant after all because the change in angle means he can feel the length inside him rubbing against something that feels good. Without thinking he reaches down a hand and starts to massage his cock, trusting Castiel to hold him up off the bed, and they stay like that for a while as Dean gets harder and Castiel settles into a rhythm that matches the short, hot breaths he gasps out against Dean’s back.

 _Castiel’s fucking me,_ Dean thinks. _After everything, after all this time, he’s actually doing this. I don’t believe it. Am I dreaming?_

Castiel suddenly releases his stomach and Dean flattens on the bed, surprised, and then arms wrap around his ribcage and lift him until he’s almost flat against his partner’s chest. He has to shift himself on the mattress, opening his thighs wider as Castiel moves position too, and then they’re both kneeling upright, flush against each other’s bodies. Dean’s still getting fucked slowly and perfectly but now Castiel is kissing his neck and murmuring his name into his ear, and now a hand comes round and grips his cock and pumps it in time to Castiel’s hips and holy shit, this is the best sex Dean’s ever had, _period_. He can’t help it; he cries Castiel’s name helplessly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on his shoulder, and Castiel responds by jerking faster against him. Dean can’t believe how hot his partner’s body is, sweat and heat and fire all mingled and pressed into his back, and he lowers a hand and squeezes the front of Castiel’s thigh, marvelling at the tightness of the muscles.

What’s weird is that there’s a real sense now that Castiel is holding himself back; not just from orgasm, but from using his strength, and the harder he thrusts inside Dean the more Dean realizes that he can’t really let himself go. For some inexplicable reason the knowledge excites him and he shifts his hips provocatively, trying to drive Castiel a little nuts, and it works. A moan falls heavily between them and Castiel curses, his arm tightening around Dean’s chest so hard that he can barely breathe, but even that is a turn-on.

“Faster,” he taunts him, feeling stupidly daring. “Come on, is that all you’ve got? You can fuck me better than that, Cas, you know you can.”

Castiel growls in his ear and Dean cries out in pain as he jerks into him too hard, so hard it makes his eyes water, and then he does it again and again and Dean has to adjust his breathing or he’ll pass out. It hurts, it really does, but at the same time there’s that odd sensation from what he can only assume is his prostate and also the solid, slick slide of Castiel’s palm around his dick, and he decides the pleasure outweighs the pain and he begins to laugh, unable to believe what’s happening to him.

And then Castiel pulls free and pushes him forwards until he’s on his hands and knees again. Dean waits, puzzled, and feels him sliding his cock between his buttocks a few times, trying to recapture some of the friction from inside him. Just when he’s wondering if that’s it, hands suddenly knock him sideways until he’s lying on his back, staring up at a guy he can barely even recognize, so unfamiliar is his expression – concentration and pleasure rolled into one, sweat gleaming on his skin and his hair damp and flattened on his forehead.

“Cas,” Dean says, and then he looks down and Castiel’s hand is wrapped around both of their cocks and pumping so hard he sees stars. Before he can even register the fact, he’s coming harder than he’s ever managed before. He shrieks – there’s no other word for it, he actually shrieks – and the sound almost, but not quite, drowns out the strangled sound that spills from Castiel’s throat, half a laugh and half a guttural, earthy cry of pain. After that Dean doesn’t really notice anything else because he’s so lost in his own personal mind-blowing orgasm. He writhes on the bed and tries to pull himself free of Castiel’s hand but he can’t; he’s holding him so tightly it almost hurts, but it also feels good in a some weird, fucked-up way. He moans, closing his eyes, and it’s a good minute before he can bring himself to open them again.

Castiel is kneeling between his legs. Dean lifts his head in time to see him release both of their spent cocks and sit back, breathing hard. His shirt is soaked, clinging to him tightly, and his face is red, making his eyes seem even bluer. They flick down to Dean and seem to have trouble focusing. He looks shocked.

“Was it good for you too?” Dean asks, with a rueful grin.

Castiel blinks at him for a few seconds before nodding. “Yes,” he says succinctly.

Dean wants to sit up, but the way his heart’s still going crazy in his chest, he thinks it’s probably not such a good idea. “Was it pretty much what you expected?” he queries, because he suddenly realizes he’s fascinated by Castiel’s reaction to what they’ve just done. He knows _he_ enjoyed it.

“Yes,” Castiel says again, and then shakes his head. “No.” He looks down at his hand. Dean can see it’s covered in semen – two lots, from both of them – and for some reason it strikes him as very funny. He laughs and Castiel looks at him, his expression baffled, and that makes Dean laugh all the more.

“Your tie,” Castiel says, when Dean has calmed down a little.

Dean lifts it up, squinting at the new design soaking into the fabric. “Great,” he mutters. “That stuff gets everywhere. Was it you or was it me?”

“I’m not buying you a new one,” Castiel says idly, and Dean is struck again by how he can say something funny and make it sound as though it’s not a joke. He stares up at him, watching as his skin returns to its normal color and he continues to gaze at his hand as though he’s hypnotized by it, and it occurs to him that perhaps Castiel knows he should leave, but doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” he says, and grabs his tie. He pulls him down to lie beside him and wraps his arms around him protectively, which is stupid, really, and he knows it, but Castiel doesn’t protest. He simply lies still and angles his head so that he can look Dean in the eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks calmly.

“Manly post-coital cuddling. Don’t tell a soul, or I’ll let people know you jizzed all over my tie.”

Castiel sighs and closes his eyes. “I haven’t ever felt anything like this before,” he admits, with surprising honesty. “I thought sex would elicit a physical response, not an emotional one.”

Dean runs a hand under his shirt, suddenly feeling happy. “An emotional response? Are you tryin’ to tell me something, Cas?”

Castiel opens his eyes again and frowns. “I should go. I can’t stay.”

And, with that, Dean is alone. It happens so quickly he jumps out of his skin; the hot body he was holding in his arms is gone, the bed shakes and the discarded angel clothes dotted around the room disappear. He spits out a curse and sits up, angry. “Love them and leave them, eh, Cas?” he calls out, having no idea if he’s listening.

He waits a while, and then forces himself to get out of bed. Sam will wonder what the hell just happened here. He has to tidy up, have a shower. Sort out the sheets. Try to remember whether he just had sex in Sam’s bed or his own. Damned if he knows.

He looks down at the jacket crumpled on the floor, and the pants huddled beside them, and pulls off his tie, holding it up to the light. Definitely stained. “Dry clean only,” he mutters, and bundles the whole lot into a ball and throws them in the trash.

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
